The Slayer (Untamed Hearts #2)(23)

“We should look this up,” she said as she glanced at her computer on the desk in the corner. “How long has it been?”

“Two days.”

“And you haven’t eaten in all that time?” Her heart rate picked up when she studied him again. He was just such a large, powerfully built man. It was easy to dismiss huge things, like his hands shaking and the dark circles under his eyes, but she realized anyone else would have seemed like they were on death’s door with the same symptoms. She took the peas from him and put them on the counter. “Sit down and you’re gonna eat, and I’m gonna look it up, and we’re gonna figure this out.”

“I don’t need help. I’ll just ride out the crash and—”

“Sit down.” She gestured to the table. “Now.”

Chuito sat down and looked at her hesitantly. “I do need coffee. I’m very certain whatever you look up will tell you I need coffee.”

She looked to her coffeemaker and shook her head. “I don’t think so. I don’t think coffee is the prescription for cocaine detox.”

“Do you have cookies?” he asked, seeming much more relaxed all of a sudden, as if he really did need someone to talk to about this. “Those cookies were baller. I could eat like five hundred of those right now.”

“I have orange juice.” She put the grilled cheese sandwich on a plate and set it in front of him. “Orange juice is good for you. Cookies and coffee are not.”

“I’m Boricua. Coffee is my lifeblood. It’s like milk to gringos. It does the body good.”

“Is that true?” she asked him with a stern look.

“Yes,” he said slowly with a stern look of his own. “I’m pretty sure my mother put coffee in my baby formula.”

She gave him orange juice instead, because if he’d been drinking coffee since he was an infant, then he needed to start cutting back. He drank the whole glass and then got up and poured himself another as he worked on eating his sandwich and soup.

“Co?o, chica, I didn’t know how f*cking hungry I was. Gracias for this,” he said as Alaine sat at her computer reading about cocaine withdrawals. “You find anything interesting on there?”

“That sugar cravings are common when coming off cocaine,” she said as she read. “And so are nightmares.”

“I had nightmares before the blow,” he mumbled and then took another bite of his sandwich. “That’s not it.”

“I think it is,” she mused. “I’m not sure if the sugar is good or not, though. It just says the cravings are common.”

“It’s good. Muy bueno.”

She laughed and turned back to him. “I think you’re doing pretty well under the circumstances. It says most people are throwing up and so depressed they’re suicidal.”

“I’m suicidal. They got that one right,” he said with a broken laugh. “If I wasn’t pretty f*cking sure I was going to land someplace worse than Garnet, I’d end it all.”

“I think you’re being overly harsh with yourself.” She gave him a sad smile. “Mind you, I ain’t suggesting suicide, but God’s pretty forgiving.”

“He’s not that forgiving,” he promised her with such grim certainty it was heartbreaking. “And there’s no Catholic church here. So I definitely can’t take myself out. I haven’t gone to confession in a really long time.”

“What happens if you die without going to confession?”

“Taking yourself out without going to confession?” He gave her a wide-eyed look of horror. “Bad plan for normal Catholics. For motherf*ckers like me. No way. I’m stuck here instead, but I’m starting to think I’d take hell over snow.”

“My daddy’s a Baptist preacher,” she admitted as she turned around and gave him her full attention while he ate. “Did you know that?”

“I did know that.” He reached for his orange juice. “I don’t know too many Protestants.” He looked ahead, the glass in his hand. “I don’t think I know any.”

“I don’t know any Catholics,” she countered.

“I guess not if there’s no Catholic church within a hundred miles and only one Latina who married a gringo and probably f*cking converted to make him happy.”

“You say a lot of bad words,” she observed drily. “You’re worse than Jules.”

“That’s what you get for inviting el diablo into your house for sandwiches and soup,” he said without remorse. “Trust me, swearing is the least of my sins.”

“You think you’re a devil?” she asked curiously, because she recognized that one. She’d never heard someone say that about themself, especially someone religious enough to worry about confession. “I’m sure that’s not true.”

“Just like you’re sure I’m not a thug,” he said with a smile and took a drink of his juice. “How old are you, mami?”

“Nineteen.”

“Co?o.” He rolled his eyes and looked away. “What the f*ck are you doing hanging out with me at one in the morning?”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“That’s not very different.”